"I'll see you Monday?" he offers. Calamity nods and walks over to her car. Fumbling with her keys, she drops them. Cursing, she bends over to pick them up. Her fingers curl around the keyring and she straightens back up.
Too quick.
Her sleep-deprived, food-deprived, everything-deprived body becomes decorated with static tingles and the black splotches in her eyes consume her. Her knees buckle and she collapses to the ground.
"Calamity!?" Talon's voice sounds tens of thousands of miles away. The coldness of the concrete seeped through her hair and caressed her scalp. Talon is by her side and props her up against her car's tire. A groan escapes her lips as she lifts her hand up to her head. Her head was spinning. It didn't hurt as much as she thought it would, but the dizziness was nauseating.
"Talon," was the only word her brain could remember.
She couldn't tell you what was wrong with her. What kind of girl invites a serial killer into her home?
UNDER EDITING
* * * *
Jovie, the strangest mix of self-destruction and an unexplainable will to survive. Living a twitchy, paranoid life in Gotham City, pursuing the lifestyle that comes with being a struggling artist.
Her fascination for the criminal mind finds a focus when she goes on to a career as a sketch artist for Gotham City Police Department. Even more so, when she strikes up an odd friendship with Gotham's best hitman, Victor Zsasz.
It's a strange and unsettling friendship, but one Jovie simply can't resist.
From the moment the two met, you could feel something insidious wrapping around them, pulling them towards a path that they knew, deep down, shouldn't be followed.
Caught up in a whirlwind of emotions, unable to see the danger that lay ahead. Love at first sight? No.
This was something far more sinister, something that promised pleasure and pain in equal measure, something that would haunt them both for the rest of their lives.
*
Victor's touch burns, hot and cold. Long gone the remembrance of her marble white skin, tanted and reddened by his touch. Driving her further to that marble white grave he wants made for her.
His tongue lingers on her parted lips, before dragging away. He can taste himself still on her tongue.
He tilts her face up, and she finds, him, still there. He hadn't moved even an inch.
But then his fingers cradle her sanguine cheeks, and his thumb presses on the corner of her bottom lip. He drags it down just a little, making her pout.
Her lips tremble.
.
.
.
#2 in Zsasz (2023)